


Breaking Point

by silent_nyx



Category: Justified
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 01:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15474573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_nyx/pseuds/silent_nyx
Summary: Set after Season 6 Episode 5...Avery Markham realizes Raylan is attempting to sabotage his plans, he send Walker and his men to kidnap Gutterson and convince Raylan to back off.Raylan/Gutterson only vaguely alluded toAttempted non-con only btwn Gutterson & WalkerMy love for hurt!Tim inspired this fic! This is a violent fic so take heed of the warning.I do not own any existing plots, references to the show, or characters!





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

> References the scene when Tim and Rachel watch Fekus get hit with the cattle prod and takes place after Tim heads home that day.

“And who do we have to blame for this sudden shift in our fortune?” Markham asked. His eyes accusing, looking to punish the man in front of him for any perceived incompetence in his answer. Walker inhales sharply and speaks on a quick, shaky breath of feigned confidence, “We have enemies a plenty. But the only two with the sway to pull off this kind of thing are the Marshal, Givens, or the criminal, Crowder.” He hopes his voice sounds more competent to Markham than it does in his own ears. Markham laughs, “Those are two very different animals, who will require two very different methods of problem solving.” He looks to Walker expectantly. It's up to him to get creative, and effective, in those methods. A spark ignites in Walker's gut, a spark that he quelled long ago, a spark he thought had been smothered by regime, structure, the purposeful violence of combat and that of his current position. But there it was, burning deep and gaining strength. “I have an idea,” he breathes out in a whisper. A smile comes to his lips, one sinister enough to halt Markham's casual approach. Markham squints at Walker. He's never seen this look in his eyes; Walker had always been quick, and even happy, to mitigate violence out on his behalf, but this was different. There was a malice swimming behind those eyes now, and a violence that would be satiated for Walker's pleasure, and his alone. “You remember that young marshal...

***

Tim is full of nervous energy when he finally makes it home. Watching a man be electrocuted, even a little weasel like Fekus, isn't exactly his idea of a good time. And it was a long day even after that little trip through memory lane. Tim knows what that feels like, the hot lick of electricity coursing through your veins, the way your muscles betray you and jerk and tremble at their own tortured volition. It fucking hurts. And so do the memories. Tim has a firm grasp on the flashbacks, has for a long while now. Now it's just the memories. They pop into his brain in a quick flash that he blinks away and covers with a heavy dose of measured sarcasm. Doesn't mean he's left unfazed. Tim decides a quick run is in order; the cool, evening air will do him some good. He changes quickly, barely home for more than three minutes and he's back out the door.

***

“You're sure?” Choo-Choo asks, watching Walker and Seabass gather the necessary supplies for the new plan. Walker tosses the length of chain into a bag with force. “Goddamn it, Choo-Choo! Since when do you shy away from a little blood?”  
“It's not the blood that I have a problem with.”  
“Look...,” Walker sucks in a deep, calming breath, “all you need to do is break some bones.” He turns to take a look in the mirror and run his hands through his stray hairs, squaring his shoulders in his reflection, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I'll take care of the rest.”

***

The quiet scuff of his shoes on pavement and the gentle burn of his muscles ease the noisy buzzing in his head. The quick flashes are less, his mind full of nothing but his own breath. It's dark now, darker than it should be, he thinks. Tim stops briefly and looks at his watch...he's been running for almost two hours. Why didn't he run in a damn circle. Tim sighs, ready for a stiff drink but that's gonna have to wait. He turns and starts the two hour trek back home.

 

It takes him an hour and a half. Tim jumps up onto the sidewalk outside his house and looks at his watch, grinning triumphantly at the half hour he shaved off. That's a half hour closer to his drink. He walks up his driveway, running his hands over the hedges as he sways in a bit of a post run endorphin bliss. That bliss evaporates into sharp focus the moment he opens the door 6 inches. The smell of men; sweat, smoke and various aftershaves, hits him square in the face. He swings open the door and reaches for the Glock strapped under the end table by the door and pulls up hugging the wall in a matter of seconds.

“Jesus Christ boy!”  
Tim squints in the dark, trying to match the voice to a face. “That was some next level shit! How did you know we were even here?” The light flips on and he sees three men come out from their hiding places, guns raised, and into partial cover. Tim sweeps his aim over every one of them, landing squarely on Walker.

“The fuck you doing in my house?”

“Waiting for you.” Walker takes in the appearance of the young marshal, all sweaty and flushed, poised like a rattler ready to strike. He takes a deep breath, quelling the damn near uncontainable desire to beat that body into a soft, wet, humiliated puddle at his feet, burn away all those hard edges.  
Tim watches as Walker's tongue darts out to wet his lips, his eyes wandering all over Tim's body, making the hairs stand on his neck.

Tim pulls the trigger without another thought; threat evident. Bullet lined up to split the man's head in half. His heart skips a beat, maybe two, when the sharp click isn't followed by a crack of promised violence. He takes half a stunned breath before the two others rush him. Tim deftly spins the gun in his hand, making a different sort of use of the weapon, and slams it into the head of the big one. Blood smears across his face but the hit barely even makes the big guy flinch. Tim spins the angle of his gun as the smaller guy goes in to hit him across the middle. He lands the weapon solidly against the guy's ear with a bit more satisfying results. He hits the ground. The big one, Choo-Choo, he remembers; how could he have forgotten that, he watches his friend hit the ground and looks up at Tim, seemingly irritated by the whole scene, and swings a big arm right into Tim's left side. Tim tries to dodge the hit but there's not enough space in his small entryway and, well, Choo-Choo is filling all the space that's left. The hit lands with a violent expulsion of all the air his lungs contained and suddenly, the floor is coming up at him at an alarming rate. Tim hits the floor, hard, stars sparking in his eyes and lungs forgetting their vital function. His ears buzz as he gasps for breath, he feels himself being lifted as he focuses on chasing away the black creeping at the corner of his eyes. Choo-Choo shoves him against the wall, pinning him with impressive strength, solidly to the plaster, he twists his arms behind him at an angle that surprises Tim as his elbows struggle to comply. Walker's dusty face enters his line of vision, a smug smile firmly in place now.  
“We've been here for hours. Found all your little hiding places.” He frowns and looks at Tim curiously, “Who runs for over 3 hours, after a 14 hour work day? Aren't you tired?” Tim smirks, “Maybe if I was a pussy merc.” Tim decides he might as well piss this guy off a bit, this may be a long night that he doesn't seem to be seeing a way out of any time soon, better start testing the boundaries. His eyes glint with mischief, amused by the narrowing of Walker's eyes. Walker smiles, tilts his head back ever so slightly and rushes forward so fast Tim doesn't have time to close his eyes. He headbutts him squarely and so solidly between his eyes, the stars and the black fight for purchase over his vision. The blackness wins.

***

Tim wakes with his awareness coming into focus in minute increments. He hurts. That much comes in loud and clear. His lungs strain for breath, ribs catching with each gasp, pretty sure a few are cracked in the least. Choo-Choo is aptly named. His head is throbbing with every beat of his heart, so heavy. He barely finds the energy to lift it off his chest. The strap of muscle across his shoulders is next to demand his attention. He realizes he's hanging from his arms, metal cutting into the thin flesh around his wrists and grinding against the bone. Full awareness rushing in now, he gathers his senses about him. He feels everything now. All the pain, from the tips of his numbing fingers to the ground skimming under the soles of his feet, his toes barely touching. Air ghosting across his chest, his pants heavy, hanging on his hips, the same bite of metal gripping his ankles with a chain bolted into the floor; all his senses are heightened, oversensitive. He consciously begins the process of shutting that down. Partitioning his pain into a dark corner of his brain. Tucking it away with familiar company. He still needs to be aware though; to figure out what the hell is going on and keep his senses awake enough to suss out a means of escape. He can't just slip into a numb disassociated unawareness, he's been trained on how to do just that, when there's no other option and he's done it before. But it's hard to come back from that place and things aren't that desperate just yet. He swallows thickly, hoping that particular skill can be left in the past.

Tim isn't sure how long he's been left hanging in the hot, sticky basement. Long enough to figure out he's in the Portal. The smell of pizza permeating the walls, the large safe looming in the room. There's people upstairs, he can hear them walking around. If the place is closed, it's far enough off a main road to not attract wanderers; probably why they picked this particular gin joint as a base of operations. He remembers Raylan saying this place used to be a bank. Raylan. Tim isn't due back in the office until tomorrow morning so that means he has a good 8+ hours before red flags start going off. Tim's head snaps up at the sound of a lock. Stealing himself for what's to come, he takes deep breath, closes his eyes and clears his mind.

Markham sidles down the staircase, eyebrows raised and a smile crooking his mouth.  
“Well young marshal, you seem a little less...smart in the mouth than the last time we met.”  
Tim smirks, eyes sparkling with a touch of madness, “Well hell Markham, figured I'd say hello before I dazzle you with my wits.”  
Markham chuckles dryly, he turns at the sound of Walker and the crew coming down the stairs.  
“You've got the whole team out today,” Tim grins, lifting himself up by his arms as far as the chains on his legs will allow him and setting himself back down to hang in his bindings, “let's do this shit.”

Markham steps close, close enough to feel the heat radiating off the young man's entire body, “You boys have fun.”

Tim held the edges of his smile in place, watching Markham glide back up the staircase without a backward glance and the others descend upon him like wolves on a wounded deer. He feels the adrenaline pumping through his veins, his instinct to fight forced to compact itself into nervous energy and contained hatred.

The little one strides right up to Tim and backhands him across the face, splitting his lip. Tim laughs and darts his tongue out to capture the fresh blood and spit it out.  
“Starting this out with a bitch slap,” Tim shows him a bloody grin, “Not the best first impression boys.” He pulls back to throw a punch. “Seabass!” Walker stops him mid-swing. He tisks at Seabass but has eyes for Tim alone. “I intend to be a bit more...meticulous, in this here particular project.”  
“Project,” Tim scoffs, “What the hell does that supposed to mean?”  
“I look at you, Deputy Marshal Gutterson, and I see a man with a history. A man like us. The weight of war laying heavy on your shoulders, the lives of what, hundreds of the enemy dead dancing in your eyes.” Walker drags over a table and sets a small canvass roll on the hard wood. “All those memories locked firmly away behind walls and walls of repression and that particularly unique brand of sarcasm that lays so thick on your tongue. But see, you chose a profession that continues to perpetuate violence in your life. That tells me, you are more similar to us three than you would like to accept. A man to whom violence is sweet if you allow yourself to taste.” Walker unrolls the canvass, eyes glinting at the silver knives revealed one by one. “A craving, only to be satisfied by action. I'd wager you live for the pull of that trigger of yours, the power coursing down your arm and into your rifle, spark of the bullet and the recoil pressed firmly into your shoulder.” He carefully selects a small, delicate looking knife and turns to Tim, “Do you watch, Deputy Marshal Gutterson? Do you watch the spray of blood through the scope? The target hit the ground with a thud?” Walker drags the thin knife down Tim's forearm, not drawing blood but eyes watching the trace of white followed by a raised red line. His eyes flick back to Tim's, “I bet that gets you off more than any wet pussy.”

Tim licks at his cut lip and huffs, “I'm gonna venture a guess that it's that gentle tug of a sharp knife slipping under slick skin that keeps you warm at night. I've met a man like you.” Tim looks him dead in the eye. He knows this man. Doesn't dare believe that they are one and the same. But he does knows the type. The kind that gets off on the power, sucks all the pain inflicted upon another as if it's the nectar of the gods. To a man like this, pain is the point. He's not talking his way out of this one. Tim's eyes darken, the smile now replaced with contempt, “We are nothing alike.”

Walker studied the young marshal's face, all hard edges and venom, “Well then, let us discover just what kind of man you are.” 

Tim's eyes stay firmly locked on Walker's. He vows right then and there that he will not allow Walker the satisfaction of his screams. He'll swallow every one that knife intends to elicit from his throat and spit it back into his face.

Walker moves back up to the start of the light line on his forearm, a promise of what's to come, and presses the edge of the blade against the white flesh. Slipping it under the skin and following the existing line all the way down to the marshal's bicep, watching the pain bloom in his eyes, the tight pull of his lips, the clenching of his jaw. The first cut is precious. Almost as satisfying as the last. In the first taste of significant pain, the walls erect around a man's mind. Walls he wants to see and understand, walls he intends to break to pieces at his feet. This man's walls are made of steel. Walker cocks his head as he lifts the blade, watching Tim's face, and drops the blade just under the left armpit, skin already purple from the train hit. He slips the knife under the skin again, pulling down slowly, letting the marshal feel every second of split skin and the escape of warm blood. Tim grids his teeth, a slight tremble in his frame, but his eyes are steady, drilling into Walker with promises to kill him slowly.

Walker stops the slice of red down at the hip bone, stopped by the edge of the young man's pants. Tim sucks in a breath at the removal of the slow blade from his flesh. “You've been tortured before,” Walker states outright. It's not a question.

Tim swallows hard, his mouth watering from the pain and spits out, “Fuck you,” every muscle in his body aching for a gun in his hand.

“That's the spirit Timmy boy,” Walker breaks into a grin. “You want to hurt me. I can see that. Maybe you'll get your chance, maybe you wont.” He puts his hand on Tim's chest and circles him slowly, tracing patterns he wants to carve into the man's skin. “Let's see what other sins you have hidden under that precise veneer of yours.” Walker's breath is hot at the back of his neck, that same shiver of a threat he felt before raises the fine hairs again. He feels large hands caress the muscles in his back, slowly dipping down and grasping at his hips. He's pulled roughly back into the man behind him. “The fuck?” Tim seethes out of clenched teeth, “You gonna fuck me now Walker? Is that how this plays out? That's just too damn predictable.” It's a risky play, demeaning a man with this kind of power over him at this moment, but it's the only play he's got. Walker stops short, his fingers teasing at the edge of the only clothing left on the young marshal. He jerks his hands back as if he was touching the red burn of an oven. Tim's eyes shoot around the room. It's quiet, all he can hear is the breathing behind him and the anxious shuffling of the two men he can see. The threat looms in the air but it's beginning to change form. Tim doesn't want to admit it, but he's fucking terrified of whatever wheels are turning in Walker's mind.

A hot lick of pain blazes across his back and a scream breaks the silence, but not his own. He arches his back and sucks in a shaky breath. Walker is angry. He has sliced a thick, deep slash across his burning shoulders. Blood mixing with sweat now pouring off Tim's body. He feels the thick blood trickle down his back. It almost tickles. Walker comes around to face Tim in a rage, just as Tim huffs a smile thinking about the blood tickling his back. Walker's face drops, his mouth agape in a look of confused surprise. He clenches his jaw, “Choo-Choo.”

Shit. Choo-Choo stands straight from the table he was leaning against and walks directly up the Tim without breaking a step. He hits Tim hard, right in the ribs and he hears the tell tell snap of bone. Tim's body betrays him, tries to double over in pain but for the chains holding him in place. He gasps for breath and swallows back a desperate whimper. Every attempt to suck in sweet air burns hot and dry in his lungs. Pain catching and blooming hot across his body. Choo-Choo turns and walks back to his post.

“Now.” Walker takes a deep breath. One that Tim envies with every piece of his soul. “Let's continue.”

***

Raylan wakes with a start. He shoots upright out of bed and hasn't a clue as to why. He drags a hand across the worried expression fixed deeply on his own face. Maybe it was a bad dream. Raylan gets up and checks his phone. No missed calls. He decides to pull on his jeans and jacket and checks the perimeter. Nothing out of sorts as far as he can tell. Heading back inside, he checks the clock. 3:23am. Damn it. Now what. He's disturbed enough to not just crawl back into bed. Hands on his hips, Raylan sighs and turns on the tv.

***

Blood slicks down from the chains cutting into Tim's wrists, slow and lazy. He vaguely wonders how much blood he has left to lose at this point in the “project”. His mind is nothing but thick fog sliced through with pain. He's slipped deeper into the quiet recesses of his mind than he'd intended to. Shut off damn near all outside input. His eyes open but barely comprehending, watching the sweat and blood drip off his body and making strange little patterns on the concrete floor. Slowly, gingerly, Tim begins to tap into a few of his senses again. He doesn't think pain has been directly inflicted upon him for a few hours, or minutes...he isn't sure. But it's been quiet and he needs to take stock of his situation.

Walker watches curiously as the deputy just hangs there, like a slab of meat. His eyes are open but they are glassy, unseeing. He's been like this for a while now. Minimally reacting to the slice of his blade or Seabass's fists. He figured he should save Choo-Choo for more extreme measures. The broken ribs took a toll on the marshal and stole some precious seconds of coherence from him that Walker craved. Right now, he's left unsatisfied. The kid hasn't screamed once. Not even close. He's whimpered a bit, sounds desperate and thick like honey. Walker lapped them up greedily. Other than those brief few cracks in the wall, this man shows little sign of breaking thus far. He's dug himself a quiet little bunker in his brain and is refusing Walker admittance.

Walker hears a quiet moan and perks up a bit. He watches the marshal intently, watching the fog clear from the boy's eyes and pain deepen into his hard features. He sits up expectantly, hopefully.

Tim gasps, cobwebs clearing quicker now, taking inventory of the damage. He thinks he might just be on fire. He hears himself whimper a little and can't seam to keep the soft sounds from escaping his bloody, broken lips. Every breath is torture unto itself. Tim looks up, desperately trying to focus his eyes, skin warm and pulling around the edges. He's a bloody pulp and he knows it. A dark form is in front of him, a few feet away. He hears a metallic clink and scrunches his brows in confusion, trying to identify the familiar sound. His eyes keep crossing and trying to roll back behind his eyelids, then suddenly, they snap sharply into focus upon comprehending the sight before him. Walker is lazily lounging in front of him, legs spread wide and he's slowly undoing his belt and moving to the fly of his jeans. A lecherous look set deep in his eyes as he licks his lips, his breathing increasing heavily. Tim tries to stop the noises that clearly seem to be exciting his captor but his resolve to that end is crumbling. He hurts more than he thinks was possible and the sight in front of him is causing a panic to rise in his chest. The last time, he lost himself so deep in the protection of his own mind, it took him a full two weeks in the hospital before he fully came back to himself. He remembers the pain but it was different, hazy and distant. He's come back to himself too soon, this isn't over yet, and he's terrified he wont be able to get himself back to that quiet cocoon in his head again.

Walker watches and drinks in the sight. The deputy has dug himself out. Walker waited long enough for a curiosity to spark in the subconscious mind of the young sniper. Maybe he's safe. Maybe his tormentors are gone. Maybe the pain can end. He watches as the panic sets in and the marshal is squirming in his bindings, sounds so sweet and pitiful now pouring like molasses out of that broken face. Walker takes in his work, the blood painted thickly across that creamy skin, that firm body now swollen and hot to the touch, soft even. He knows he hasn't broken the man but he is a sight to behold. Walker pulls down the zipper of his jeans and reaches a hand down into his pants, grasping his now aching and hardening cock. He can see that the sniper sees now, and comprehends. Walker wraps his hand firmly around his dick, stroking in time with the tortured whimpers escaping the writhing man before him. He stands up and strolls over to the man, feels the eyes following him, the slight tremble in his muscles as he tries in a pitiful attempt to back away.

Tim watches under hooded eyes. He wonders if Walker intends on following through on his implied threat from what feels like days ago and fucks him bloody right here and now. Walker is close now, thick dick in his hand as he grasps and rubs his thumb over the head. He put his hand on Tim's chest, exploring his work, fingers biting into the wounds, tearing slightly here and there where it pleases him. Tim flinches and gasps despite himself with every vile touch. Walker's skin is like acid on his own broken flesh. Walker circles behind him and wraps an arm around his chest, pulling him close and nipping at his ear. He feels Walker's hard cock pressed against his ass, the thin cloth of his pants the only barrier, easily torn away if Walker desires it. Walker presses harder against him, breathing faster and faster. An unsettled nausea turned deep in Tim's gut. As hot as he was, feverish and hurting, he feels a cool prickling as the blood drains from his face. Jesus Christ. This was all nothing but a game to Walker. See him reduced to nothing but a whimpering sap at Walker's hand, a spectacle for his own pleasure, getting off on the power he's ever so delicately stripped from him. Tim laughs. He can't help himself. The absurdity of it all. He knows he's lost the plot, slipped into a new level of madness but he's honest to god chuckling now.

Walker freezes in place. Rage igniting in his gut at the sound. Is he fucking laughing? Walker spins around to face the marshal, a grin straining against his broken face and a laugh bubbling out of his bloody lips.

“The fuck you laughing at kid?”

Tim takes in the sight, Walker, with is pants undone and his cock leaking pre-cum, erection withering slowly, as if his dick itself is ashamed by being caught in such a scene. Tim laughs harder now, coughing up blood in the process and trying to lift his legs to curl up away from the pain in his ribs the giggles are causing. He's full blown manic now and can't get control of himself. He knows that laughing at the man with the ample supply of knives and a clear penchant for rape isn't exactly a wise move. The door up the staircase opens and Walker quickly tucks himself away and hits Tim hard across the face. The blow shuts him up quick as the playful little stars are back in his vision. His head lolls against his arm as he winces at the ache across his entire body. Sharply and completely somber now.

Choo-Choo and Seabass come down the stairs in a rush.

“We heard something,” Seabass walks towards the middle of the room, “sounded like laughing.”  
Walker turns on the smaller man and decks him right across the face, sending him to the ground for the second time that night.  
“What the hell Walker?” Choo-Choo asks in his strained drawl, moving to pick his friend up off the floor.  
Walker growls and pushes past them.  
“Do your worse gentlemen, but just don't kill him. I'm gonna go make the call to Givens.”

Both henchmen curiously watch their leader stomp up the stairs in a huff. They turn to look at Tim, hanging bonelessly now, tired and beaten and ready for this to be over.

“Well hell,” Seabass chimes in, ready to mitigate out some of his own pain, “let the party begin!” He slaps his hands together, making the marshal flinch in his chains. He motions to Choo-Choo, “Drop him.”

Choo-Choo walks behind Tim and he hears the snap of a lock being released. Before he could even attempt to make his legs catch his weight, he's slamming hard into to concrete floor, covering his face as a the length of chain falls on top of him. He almost screamed. For the first time in this hellish night. The sudden shock of pulling his tortured arms back in front of himself and releasing the weight hanging on them for the entirety of the night was excruciating. He almost blacked out and tried to welcome the reprieve but he couldn't quite get there. Curling in on himself as best he could, face pressed into the cool concrete, he felt as close to bliss as he could imagine in his current reality. The moment to gather himself and breathe into his sore muscles was short lived. A hand grasped his hair and pulled back sharply, Seabass's fist came down hard. A good old fashioned beating. This, he was used to. Choo-Choo picked him up and pulled his arms back over head, and locked his fingers behind Tim's head, holding him in place; open and exposed.

Seabass hit him in the ribs and nearly blacked him out again. He watched as the marshal's eyes glazed over and he coughed painfully deep in his chest. He hit him then, three times in the face, the third hit, Choo-Choo dropped him and the momentum careened him into the floor. Seabass kicked him in stomach and watched the pitiful form coughing and writhing in his own blood, chain still pinning his ankles to the same spot.

Seabass waited until the marshal caught his breath and recovered somewhat. He wanted to see the comprehension and fear on his face when he gave the order. The marshal gasped and briefly cast his gaze up to Seabass, seemingly wondering what the hold up was. A smile curled up Seabass's lips, “Break his arm.”

Tim heard the command but didn't quite understand. Why. What's the point. Choo-Choo took the two steps to get to him and he tried desperately to squirm away with no where to go. Choo-Choo grabbed at his arm and went to twist him forward onto his stomach, trying to position it just so to break the arm at the elbow. But as he reached for him, Tim kicked him as hard as he could and caught Choo-Choo in the knee. Choo-Choo stumbled slightly and Seabass sprung on him, gathering up the chain to his wrists and pulling him flat on his stomach. He tried to kick but didn't have the room or leverage anymore. Choo-Choo grabbed his arm again and held him solidly in place as Seabass let some of the chain loose. “Don't you fucking do it,” Tim seethed out between his teeth. Choo-Choo stood over Tim, seeing the desperation in the warning. Choo-Choo doesn't like violence like the rest of them, he's just good at it. It's all he's good at. He's half standing with one hand holding the marshal's shoulder still and the other holding his arm out straight. He never took his eyes away from the side of the man's face as he placed his shin to the back of the crook of the man's arm. He pulled the shoulder and arm back as he put all his weight on the elbow with incredible force. It snapped backward and Tim screamed.

***

Raylan was at the office an hour early, half hoping to see Tim when he got in. He was always such an early riser and often wandering in early with coffee and donuts for the office. Raylan hadn't slept the rest of the night. This gnawing feeling that something was wrong just wouldn't shake. Seeing Tim at his desk would have relieved some of his concern. He'll just wait until Tim gets to work like the rest of them to make sure he's ok. No sense in raising the alarm on a bad feeling. Art walked in a half hour later, Rachel not far behind and both casting matching suspicious glances at Raylan as he sat at his desk, checking last night's police reports.

“Did hell freeze over?” Art asked coming to a halt at Raylan's desk.

“Not that I know of.” Raylan drawled out impatiently.

“Then why are you here?” Rachel asked, circling around to sit at her desk, amused at the oddity.

“I think something's wrong but I can't figure out what,” Raylan still hadn't taken his eyes off the screen. He said it with such genuine concern that Rachel came around from her desk and Art's curiosity turned to worry.

“Winona? Is Willa ok?”

Raylan sighed, frustrated, “Yeah, I called them this morning but they said everything was fine.”

Art's worried brow deepened, “So now you're checking police reports? Did you check with the hospital yet?”

“Yeah Art. I did,” Raylan was tired and concerned but it was probably nothing and he felt silly pulling Art and Rachel into his paranoid mind, “It's probably nothing but a bad night's sleep. I'm sure everything's fine.” He went to get up from his desk and grab another cup of coffee when his phone rang.

They all looked at it like it had a mutated head.

“Well are you going to answer it?” Rachel asked, the urgency turning the question just short of a screech.

Raylan picked up the phone and almost forgot to say hello. At Art's pointed expression, he asked, “Deputy Marshal Givens...who is this?” Art almost rolled his eyes, feeling foolish for taking part in the groundless paranoia until Raylan's face twisted into a tight scowl, which then turned to something that looked very close to barely contained rage as he listened intently.

Without a word, he hung up the phone.

“What the hell, Raylan?”Art yelled out after a beat, “Who was that?”

“They have Tim.”

Rachel put down her coffee and immediately went into business mode. She checked her gun, threw her jacket back on and asked, “Where?”

“Rachel hang on a minute,” Art was trying to wrap his head around the fact that Raylan's spidey senses actually panned out to something and that that something meant his deputy was in serious trouble. “What do we know?”

Raylan took a breath and seemed to finally focus on the here and now, “They said that we will find our deputy in the basement of the Portal.”

“The Portal?” Art didn't get this strategy, “That means Markham is behind this. Why would they just leave him there for us?”

“That depends what kind of state he's in Art.” Raylan stated pointedly, looking at his chief with an impatient knowing, “This is a warning. And a warning doesn't make it's destination unless you know who it came from.”

***

“Go back, Walker. That's an order.” Markham demanded of his bought and paid for mercenary. “You left that marshal alive! He saw all our faces, Walker! He saw MY face!”

Walker kept driving, eyes on the road.

“Walker!”

“He won, Markham.” That was all Walker could say. He's said it three times now and it was all that mattered. Deputy Marshal Tim Gutterson had won.

Markham simply pulled out his gun and shot Walker in the head. The wheel turned violently and Markham grabbed at it, trying to ease the impending crash. They spun and hit a tree off the side of the road, stopping them dead. The car following behind screeched to a stop, car doors slamming as they jumped out to help.

“Walker? Markham?” Seabass yelled, “Are you ok?”

“We're fine,” Markham yelled back, grabbing his gun and climbing out of the car. He had a gash on his head, above his right eye. Stumbling, he reached out for Seabass as Choo-Choo went around to check on Walker. Seabass grabbed Markham's arms to help steady him and felt a hot crack of pain through his stomach. He gasped and backed away. Blood on his hands. He saw the gun in Markham's hand as he slid to his knees.

“You buggered this up good boys. Leaving a federal marshal, tortured and alive! What exactly did you think was going to happen?”  
Choo-Choo looked in the car and saw the blood, the bullet wound blown through his Top's head.  
“Why'd you go and do that?”  
Markham looked over and Choo-Choo, the dumb shit. “The marshal can identify every one of us. Walker was supposed to kill him! Leave him on the marshal's doorstep! Walker's pride got the best of him. He was past his time anyway.”  
“No.” Choo-Choo simply said.  
Seabass went for the gun. It was sloppy and slow. Markham turned and shot him twice in the chest without another thought. Turning his gun on Choo-Choo, he blinked in surprise to not find him standing by the car anymore. Markham spun, looking for the man large enough he couldn't hide behind a brick building.  
“Hey.”  
Markham turned and fired a shot just as a big fist hit him in the face. He bounced off the car and Choo-Choo grabbed him by the shirt and caved in his skull with a single punch.  
Choo-Choo looked around at the mayhem before him, sighed and walked up to the car on the street. He cast one final look over his shoulder at everything that meant anything to him in this world and drove off.

***

Raylan was first through the door. Rachel and Art right on his heals. They swept through the upper level of the restaurant, clearing every room until the basement door. Raylan paused, signaling one of the police officers to break the door in, the lock still firmly in place. Three hits and the door broke at the hinges. Guns drawn, Raylan descended down the staircase, the smell of blood and damp hitting him first. He cleared the overhang and pulled up short at the scene before him. One he never could have begun to prepare for.

Tim was chained to the cold concrete floor in the middle of the room. His eyes were open but Raylan wasn't sure if he was registering that they were in the room. He walked up slowly to his side, watching as Tim pulled weakly at the chains on his ankles. He was a bloody mess. Long, deep cuts all across his body; his arms, his chest, his back, even his face had a cut down the left side, from his cheekbone to just above his chin. His left arm was bent at an unnatural angle. “Goddamn.” He was beaten to hell. His eyes nearly swollen shut, lips split and bleeding, and his torso was black and blue, from what he could see through all that blood. Broken ribs, for sure. Raylan rushed to his partner's side, hand hovering over the twisted mess that has become of Tim, not knowing where to touch that would offer comfort and not more pain. He gently put his hand on his hip, the only place seemingly left unmarred by the hands of the animals who did this to his friend. He felt like a furnace. Tim flinched violently and put his hands out in front of him, not to protect himself, but to fight. His broken arm only allowing for a weak fist but it was a fist nonetheless. A strained smile ghosted across Raylan's face as he shushed Tim, trying to calm him and let him know that he was safe.

Tim felt pressure on his hip and the sudden presence of others in the room. He was surprised they were able to get into the room without him realizing it. He had been trying with all of his might to not pass out again, to stay somewhat aware while needing desperately to just slip away from the pain. But he still had some fight left in him if that's what they wanted.

“Shhhhh..., Tim it's Raylan. You're ok now,” the words ebbed into his foggy mind. Raylan? Raylan was here? He struggled to focus his eyes. “Shhhhh, easy now Gutterson, take it easy.”

“Ray-,” he frowned at his own voice and inability to croak out a single word. A hand so gently carded through his hair, making shushing, soothing sounds.  
“Not a baby,” the deep frown set in Tim's features make Raylan chuckle a bit at the words. Goddamn it, Tim.  
“Did he just call you baby?” Art asked, incredulous, worried but slight amusement on his face.  
“I believe he might have.” Raylan joked. “Let's get him home.”

~The End


End file.
